Place in the City (17 page)

He couldn't understand. Broken as he was, he could comprehend only the question: Why and why and why? For what reason? For what justice?

Was there no more truth in life than this? Was his brief worship of life all a lie? Was this the answer to everything, the ultimate and single answer?

A thousand thousand questions filled his mind, so many questions that all order was lost. Only the why remained; the demand for reason.

T
HE TWO
were alone on the street, while the echoes of the gun still seemed to roll and tremble in the night. It was late, lonely; a cold wind blew through a dead city.

Then life came. Windows flew up, and a thousand voices all spoke at once. Life came from everywhere, from deep in the depths of the cul-de-sac, from the houses that lined it, from the avenue.

Men and women were talking, asking, wondering; a woman screamed, and a cat ran yowling through the snow. Footsteps crunched from every direction.

People came from nowhere. One moment the street was empty, and the next men and women were running. They pounded down the snow, kicked it, trampled it; they pushed at one another, growled, shouldered each other aside; and every moment the crowd grew larger. They all came, men with overcoats thrown over pajamas and boots drawn hastily on, honest men and dishonest men, men whose business it was to be awake at that hour, and men who had no business awake at that hour, gamblers, whores, and pimps, cheap ward politicians and storekeepers, workingmen and their wives; they pushed and crowded and cursed:—and all of them were living because of death.

“Get away.”

“Cut it out!”

“Giver some air! Geesus, why don't yu giver some air? Get away!”

“What happened?”

“Ahdunno.”

“Someone got the curtains.”

“Hell, yes.”

“Didyu hear the guns? Sounded like an army.”

“It ain't safe to bring up a wife an' kids in this lousy neighborhood. I'm sleepin' an' my wife wakes up screamin'. Jus' like that—screamin' 'at the kids are murdered. Who is it?”

“Who is it?”

“Who is it?”

“Who is it?”

“They say it's a woman.”

“Get back in the house!”

“Woman, y'say?”

“There's Timy Dolan. Hey, Timy!”

“Where's O'Lacy. Just like a cop. Geesus Christ, I never seen it tu fail. When yu wanna cop, there ain't one around. But when yu go along mindin' yer own business, there's always one on yu tail.”

“Hell, yes.”

“Hell, yes.”

“Hey, Timy! What happened?”

“Get tu hell offana my feet.”

“Don't talk tu me like that.”

“Who yu callin' a whore?”

“Awright, awright.”

“Well—get back, get back! Whatdyu wanna do, eat it? Ain't yu never seen a spot of blood before?”

“Call an ambulance!”

“Yeah.”

“They called one.”

“Hell, no.”

“Now wouldn't that get yu? Nobody ever thinks of callin' a wagon. Whatdyu wanna tu do, bleed to death?”

“It's a woman, ain't it?”

“What happened?”

“Who's 'at guy holdin' her head. What happened, bud? Hey, bud, yu deaf an' dumb? Wotthehell happened?”

“G'wan, yu'll crush 'em.”

“Call an ambulance.”

“Aw, take it easy, take it easy.”

“Is she hurt, bud?”

“Lemme get a look at 'er. I had a brother shot.”

“I had plenty of slugs in me in the war. Lemme get in there.”

“Take it easy.”

“Here's the cops.”

O'Lacy came pounding down the street, swinging his nightstick. “Now get away!” he yelled. “Get away or I'll bend this a bit over your fat skulls. Now make a way there! Don't you have any ears? Get away!”

He forced his way through the crowd, until he stood next to Anna and Edwards. Edwards hadn't moved; he still sat there, holding Anna's head in his lap; he seemed unaware of the crowd; he even seemed unaware of O'Lacy, when the nightstick touched him.

“What happened?” O'Lacy demanded.

“The guy's deaf.”

“Who's the woman?”

“It's that crazy music teacher's wife.”

“Where is he?”

“Shut up, shut up!” O'Lacy told them. Then he poked Edwards with his stick. “C'mon—get up. Let me look in there. What happened to the lady?”

Then, suddenly, the crowd was silent. The silence came of no single will, nor of any accord, but settled upon them suddenly like the pall of the night. The silence increased, grew like a living thing, until even O'Lacy felt reluctant to speak. If anyone spoke now, it was in a hushed whisper. Timy and Shutzey, standing behind the officer, stared with wide-open eyes; but they did not speak.

O'Lacy bent over Anna. He spread her coat, put his hand on her breast, and then shook his head. Then he turned his eyes to the poet. Edwards seemed to be staring at him.

“Mother of God,” O'Lacy whispered.

Very slowly, he touched Edwards' face, touched one of his eyes, and then closed it. He closed the other.

“Mother of God,” he whispered again.

He rose to his feet slowly, brushing the snow from his trousers. Then he turned around and looked at the crowd. Then, with almost a gasp of thankfulness, he saw the priest.

“I know him,” Jack nodded. “His name's Edwards. The girl's the wife of the music teacher, you know, that old German. What's the matter with him?”

O'Lacy shook his head. Then he turned to the crowd. “Get away,” he said, “now get away—all of you.”

“What's wrong with him?” the priest demanded. “Edwards—Edwards!”

“He won't be answering you,” O'Lacy muttered.

“Why not?”

“He's dead.”

The priest felt Marion's hand grow suddenly tight on his arm. He shook his head.

“Sure—they're both dead,” O'Lacy told him.

A
FTER
Claus left the subway, his fear vanished. He was walking along a street that was gray with the approaching dawn. He was looking for something; when he came to a corner and saw Anna waiting for him, he knew that he was looking for her.

Now, he wasn't mad, for he knew it wasn't Anna. Anna was dead, and there are no ghosts. But all the same, he stopped and stared. He said:

“You're not angry. You're just wondering what became of me, my Anna?”

Then he saw that it was another woman entirely, and he smiled. He was glad that it was not Anna. But as he walked on, he saw Anna again and again; and each time, though he knew it wasn't Anna, he was forced to speak; and each time he smiled with relief when he had passed the stranger.

The sky was already blue when he saw a policeman. He was surprised at the ease with which he spoke to the officer. “You see,” Claus said, “I killed my wife …”

T
HE DAWN
was breaking. From the east, along the streets, flashes of the sun stabbed into the snow. Cold, beautiful light was all over the city. People were waking, dressing, living again after the night. Already, in Apple Place, it seemed that the happenings of the night were a part of a dream, things to be spoken of the way you speak of a legend, but things that had actually never happened.

Marion hadn't slept. Now, walking with the man she loved, all of the night was a confused dream. She remembered going with the priest, with the bodies of the poet and the woman. She wouldn't leave him. She remembered that they went to a police station, and the music master was there. He stared at her, but she didn't think that he had seen her. Then they went back to the mission. Now they were going back to Apple Place.

She thought that after the night she could sense something of the life in the Place. Jack thought so too. It was a sprawling jumble of life, without meaning and without reason, men and women reaching and struggling, hating and loving and killing.

“But something is good,” she said. She was happy. Out of all these people, perhaps she was the only one; but she was happy.

“Something,” the priest agreed. “There must be something. But when we lose our faith in everything else, what are we to look for? We go on seeking and seeking—”

“Together, though,” Marion said.

“Always together.”

It seemed to Marion that they were walking on into the sunrise …

PART TWO

A
LREADY
the poet had become a legend. Whether he was a good poet or a bad poet—that did not matter, only that he was a poet, and that he had lived and died in Apple Place. And he had brought romance to Apple Place—that mattered too—so that never again were the brown house-fronts so drab, or the gutters so dirty, or the sidewalks so gray and expressionless. Apple Place became as old as the world—because it gained tradition.

Winter passed, and the snow melted. It ran through the gutters to the sewers, and for days there was slush ankle-deep. And then, the way it always comes in the city, spring appeared, a warm breath in a cold breeze. But the breeze was clean and pure for the little while it lasted…. And already the poet was tradition, and his death a folk-tale.

In Apple Place there was one solitary plane tree, fighting gallantly for existence in the one square yard of earth that was granted it from the cement. When the breath of spring came, some people noticed the small green buds on the tree; it was very pretty.

The snow was gone, and the wind blew. Now Shutzey hardly ever stood on the corner by Meyer's store, picking his teeth.

A
SIGN
outside the house where the poet used to live said, “This property for sale or lease.” The sign had been there for two months, when one day in the early spring a moving van backed up to the door.

The men were there for over an hour, taking out the furniture, and when they were through the day had begun to wan, and the shadows in the street had already become long and cold, the way they do on a spring evening. The only thing the men really had difficulty with was the upright piano. It took a lot of struggling, and they had to attach ropes to it before they could take it down the brownstone stairs. They had to put casters of a sort under it, too. Then, bit by bit, they let it down.

“Ease up, Benny,” the man on the street called to the one on the steps as the piano rested. “Ease up.” He straightened and wiped his face. The wind was growing cold, and his wet shirt had commenced to chill him. Anyway, it was growing late; he thought of how nice it would be to go into Kraus' saloon, just around the corner, have a beer or two, and then go home and change his clothes for a date.

He bent his shoulders, and the piano came away from the steps. Benny came down and helped him, and when they had the piano on the street, they both sat on the steps and lit cigarettes.

“Now ain't that a helluva mess, Monk,” said Benny, pointing to the pile of furniture in the truck. “Where we gonna put the piana?”

“On the tail.”

“Now that reminds me, I gotta date.”

“Yeah—me, too.”

“Let's get done.”

“Yeah.”

They rigged a slide to the tail of the truck, and then they both stood regarding the piano. It was a heavy, carved upright.

“I'll get a rupture yet liftin' this junk,” Monk remarked.

“Get down on it.”

They were putting their shoulders to the piano, when one of Shutzey's girls came along the street. She was a little blond thing, with a big hat that spread over her shoulders, a print dress, and a half-length coat. Walking past, she slid her eyes at Monk, swayed her head, paused, and then went on. Monk stared, and Benny kicked him.

“C'mon—”

“Hey—sister!”

“Now waddyu wanna start that now?” Benny begged. “You got a date tonight, ain't yu? So waddyu wanna—”

“Who yu callin' sister?” she smiled.

“No offense.”

“Run along, sister.”

“Don't mind that boob.”

“I ain't mindin' none uv you.”

“How'd yu like tu drink a pail of suds wid me—soon as I get this scow loaded on?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah?”

A boy walking down the street stopped and looked at the piano. For him, the piano was all memories, a room with curious paper, a green carpet, and a tall man of whom he was terribly afraid. But now the man was gone. He would never be afraid of him again, and standing there in the long sunlight, the piano was shabby and drab. It was like a king dethroned—or more like the throne of a king dragged from the palace. The boy looked at it and smiled. Then he looked up at the windows of the house and made several faces. First, he rocked back and forth, grinning; but then the grin vanished, and he stole to the piano.

“C'mon, kid,” Benny told him, “run along.”

But Peter noticed the byplay between the men and the woman. It was all common enough to him, and without any complicated reasoning, he was assured that it would take up all of their time. What they were saying interested him not at all—if he heard it. It was enough that they were taken up with it.

He raised the board that covered the keys, touched them apprehensively, and then ran his fingers into a scale.

“Now ain't that a card,” the girl said. “Lookit the little mick playin'.”

A
SONG
of spring,” O'Lacy thought, hearing the thin tinkle of the music. For a cop, for one who had pounded pavements many years, O'Lacy had a curious turn of mind and words; or perhaps it was a memory of a green land, where seasons were a bigger clock than here.

Walking down the street, he stopped at the tree. The place had only one tree, but that was more than most streets in the city had. O'Lacy looked at the buds; reaching up, he pinched one off, and ground it between his fingers. And he smiled, satisfied, at the green juice that oozed between his thumb and forefinger. Life ran out and onto him; life was in the air. All day long, the wind had blown from the south and the west, fair weather and spring on the wind; now it shifted to the north, and the air was biting, but spring on the wind anyhow.